Marrying Molly. Christine Rimmer
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as the walls and the reception chairs. She could have scratched out his eyes on the spot for that, for making her blush deep red in her own place of business. She opened her mouth to order him out and then shut it before she spoke. She could see by the granite set to his square jaw that demanding he leave would be an exercise in futility. He would still be here and she would look more ineffectual that she looked already.
So what, then? Call the chief of Tate’s Junction’s two-man police department? Yeah, right. Everyone knew Police Chief Ed Polk was in Tate Bravo’s pocket—just like most of the other officials in town.
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, tone sweet as honey, teeth clenched tight. “I can’t talk right now. I have to finish this perm. And after that, I have four cut-and-blow-dries and three weaves to do.”
“Take a break.”
“I will not.”
Tate grabbed for the bowl of solution. Molly snatched it away, almost spilling it down the back of Emmie’s neck. Emmie let out a cry of distress.
“Look.” Molly set the bowl down, stepped right up to Tate and lifted her face so they were nose to nose. “You are scaring my customers. Kindly get the hell out of my shop.”
He stepped back, stood straight to his full six foot three and folded those big, hard arms across his wide chest. “Not until we have a talk.”
“We have talked,” she reminded him in a tone so low he probably wouldn’t have heard it if everyone else in the shop hadn’t been holding their breaths and sitting absolutely still, staring with wide, eager eyes.
“We sure as hell haven’t talked enough.”
“It doesn’t matter how much we talk,” she told him. “Nothing is going to change.”
“We’ll see about that.” He glanced around. “You got an office in this place where we can have a little privacy?”
A thought came to her. She would stall him. Maybe if she stalled long enough, he would give up and go away. She tugged neatly—for emphasis—on her latex gloves and then picked up her bowl of solution again. “I can’t speak to you right this minute. A perm simply can’t wait. Have a seat in the reception area—enjoy a cup of coffee or some cold tea if you’d like. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
He looked at her sideways, those fine, sculpted lips curling in obvious suspicion. “Molly.” He muttered her name, making a warning of it.
“I’m sorry, Tate. You’ll just have to wait.” She pointed at the one free chair—right next to Donetta. “Go on. Sit over there.”
It worked. He wasn’t happy about it, but he strode over to that chair and dropped into it.
Donetta kind of craned back away from him, gulped and tried weakly, “Well, hi there, Tate. How’ve you been?”
“Hello, Donetta,” he growled. He picked up a magazine, looked at the cover of it and tossed it right back down.
“How is that brother of yours?” asked Donetta. “I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been missing longer than the Bravo Baby, and that’s a fact.” She was grinning by then, as if she’d said something really clever.
Tate didn’t seem to see the humor. The Bravo Baby—no relation to Tate or his brother—had been kidnapped years and years ago. Coast to coast, everyone knew the story of how he’d vanished from his crib in his wealthy parents’ Bel Air mansion. A huge ransom had been paid, but the baby was never returned. He’d been found, a grown man, alive and well, a few years back, after going missing for three decades.
Tucker hadn’t been gone nearly that long.
Tate, however, had sense enough not to point that out. He probably knew it would only encourage Donetta. Instead he replied stiffly, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tucker, myself.”
Donetta tried again to get a little more information out of him. “Loves to travel, doesn’t he?” she asked brightly. “I hear he’s been all over the world.”
Tate looked at her, dead on. “That’s right,” he said. The set of his shoulders and the icy look in his eyes clearly indicated that the conversation was concluded.
Donetta took the hint. She raised her magazine and pretended to read it with all her might.
Tate gave up looking for reading material. He sat in the red chair and stared straight ahead. For a while, the Cut was way too quiet. In time, though, the women did begin talking again—but furtive and soft, the way people whisper at funerals or in church.
Molly finished putting the solution on Emmie, set the timer and moved her to another chair. She took off her plastic gloves. “Donetta, let’s have Charlee get you shampooed.”
Donetta eagerly put down her magazine and headed for the sinks where Charlee, the shampoo girl, would take good care of her.
Tate stood. The place went dead silent again.
Molly shook her head. “Sorry. No can do right yet.” She beamed him a big, fake smile.
Tate glared—but he did sit back down. Molly went over and made a show of checking on Emmie, though really there was nothing to check on as yet. Then, since it would be a few minutes until Charlee was done with Donetta, Molly headed for the back door. Out in the alley, she crouched behind the big shop Dumpster and waited for enough time to pass that she could start on Donetta.
Five minutes later, she reentered the shop. Tate was right there waiting by the door. “Where did you get off to?” he demanded.
She edged around him. “Excuse me. I’m working, here.”
Charlee had already led Donetta to the chair and put the cape on her. Molly set to work on Donetta’s hair. Tate, who had followed behind her from the back door, hovered a few feet away, looking dangerous. But after a few minutes of that, he gave up and went back to sit down.
Molly cut and blew Donetta dry. By then, Emmie was ready for the setting solution and the rinse. Molly put her gloves back on and took care of it. Then Emmie had to be dried and combed out.
By the time she whipped the cape off of Emmie—about an hour and a quarter after Tate had first entered the shop—he was getting pretty edgy. Molly kept sending him careful sideways glances.
Uh-uh. Not good. He wasn’t giving up and going away as she’d secretly hoped he might—and he wasn’t sitting still for this waiting game much longer.
Just as she’d expected, two or three minutes later, he stood. “Molly, I’ve had it. Either you talk to me in private—now—or we will have our little conversation right here with all these lovely, interested ladies listening in.”
Molly looked in his eyes and knew she couldn’t stall him another minute longer. So all right, she thought. She would take him into her office and tell him all over again what she’d told him last night.
How many times was she going to have to tell him? Judging by his mulish expression, too many.
Or maybe he actually had something new to say. It could happen. After all, anything was possible.
“Emmie, you can settle up with Darlene and she’ll get you scheduled for that color—next week?”
Emmie nodded and moved to the reception desk. The place had gone deathly quiet again. And though Donetta had already had her cut, she hadn’t left. Oh, no. She’d plunked herself right back down in that red chair and picked up the same magazine she’d already read at least twice.
A feeling of equal parts bottomless dread and glum resignation dragged on Molly. Those two scandal-free months she’d been anticipating were starting to look more and more unlikely.
She turned to Leslie Swankstad, her next customer. “Sorry, Leslie. I’ll be a few minutes.”
“Oh, no problem,” Leslie said, sounding breathless. “No problem